


Craig

by dustiie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:32:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustiie/pseuds/dustiie





	Craig

Target name: Craig Mitchell.

Former British High Commissioner to Afghanistan.

Reason for execution: Unknown. (Moriarty won’t spill.) (Possibly something to do with the way he refused to smuggle illicit drugs and weaponry.) (Or the fact that when he finally did, he tried to screw Moriarty out of the revenue.)

 

Moran fit the key into the door’s lock with a steady hand, a grin on his face, and the adrenaline pumping through his body in rapid, throbbing waves.

His main problem was that he enjoyed it. Beyond the guilt and the fear of punishment, and the self-disappointment, there was always a degree of absolute excitement that raced through him at the prospect of his boss absolutely losing his shit at the thought of Moran having fucked up.

 

It didn’t happen often--Sebastian was good at what he did. But this time, orders had been unclear, his view restricted, and he was under the pressure of having to be home in time for goddamn dinner. 

 

He’d been at Mitchell’s house, posh fucking mansion with large, white windows and high ceilings. The kind of house that had chandeliers hanging in every room, and a Rolls Royce parked outside.

Sebastian waited with his rifle at the ready and finger on the trigger. He’d been steady, watching and waiting for the right second to pull; the description of his target clear on his mind: The hair, the moustache, the protruding ears. Craig Mitchell strolled into his living room at exactly 6:34pm and took a seat on his armchair. The shot was clear, and Moran never missed.

Upright, the man sat, with his head bent backwards at an impossible angle as the crimson seeped into the backrest of his seat, drinking up the hot blood in stains that would be a bitch to clean off.

 

Little did Sebastian know that he’d gotten the wrong target. That the fucker had a brother, and what he remembered of the moustache was actually Jim musing about whether or not he should get one himself. The little shitmick and a moustache, and Sebastian’s heart was suddenly at his ears, breaths panicked, pupils dilated as they stared through the scope as the _real_ Craig Mitchell who now hurried towards his brother with hysteric screams booming across the living room before--

 

Before he, too, was hit through the temple and landed with a crash on the coffee table.

 

Except that second bullet hadn’t come out of his own rifle. Sebastian loathed the times when someone else took the shot. He hated the times he didn’t work alone. He hated everything, and the sudden anticipation of Moriarty’s wrath rose like vomit up his trachea. Thick, hot and oozing.

 

Home. He was supposed to be home for dinner, but even still, he took a detour. Moriarty incessantly planned things right down to the minute, like a fucking nutcase stressing over every last detail to make sure everything went _perfectly._ And Moran, having fucked up his little anal plan by a handful of seconds, would surely not be congratulated.

If Sebastian didn’t come home with something to soften the blow, Moriarty would be sure to blow his brains out with a fucking British Army Browning L9A1.

 

It wasn’t much of a gift, really, and it earned him a judging look from the cashier. Handcuffs, lube, chapstick for the morning. It wasn’t much of a gift, but at least it’d signal Moran was prepared for the punishment Moriarty would be sure to beat into his _dumb. fucking. animal. head._

 

By the time he made it to their door, however, his entire fucking body was buzzing with the idea of Moriarty landing blow after blow on him, his skin screeching with red welts, cuts and bruises that wouldn’t fade for days, for weeks, like marks, like proof of his mistake, of his idiocy. He didn’t care, he didn’t care that it hurt, that it burnt, that it ate him alive like incineration. He craved the pain like nothing else, because it made him feel alive, every blow, every gash, _real._

 

He twisted the key, and pushed the door open with his body. The keychain was dropped into a bowl by the entrance, and with a soft knock of his heel to the door as he closed it, he alerted James of his presence.

 

It was quiet in the house as Moran ventured in, his boots marking his steps, one after the other as he unwound the scarf from his neck, dropped his duffel bag in the living room by the couch, and followed his nose to the kitchen--

 

The table was set for two in the dining room.

 

And on Sebastian’s chair, sat a man with the back of his head blown off, brains and dead tissue exposed, chunks of his cranium sticking out in odd angles, and patches of hair. 

 

Sebastian approached him slowly, with trepidation in his wide eyes, like a curious, uncertain dog.

 

“This is Craig,” Were the words that floated, airy and high-pitched to Moran’s ears when he stared at the man’s face. No moustache. The real thing. Sebastian vaguely remembered the way his face had looked with his features twisted in hysteria and panic. But he looked very different now, with half his fucking head blown off. Even without looking, Sebastian could feel James’ smile in his voice, see his eyes squinted in the most innocent of smiles, and Moran knew the spider like no other. The chill that ran down his spine straightened his back like a rod when he turned to watch Moriarty come out of the kitchen, with his hands shoved deep into the front pockets of his three-piece Armani suit (one of the new Summer 2013 collection in light grey).

 

“Yes.” Moran managed to respond, hands gripping the plastic bag of his peace offering, and bringing it to his front like a wall between them.

 

“He was supposed to die today.” And slowly, the façade began to fall, Moriarty’s voice growing darker, that smile turning sinister, crooked, deranged.

“With all due respect, sir, he looks quite dead to me.”

“And no thanks to you.”

“No, sir.” Even a fool would know not to contradict the spider.

“He was _your_ target.” A pause. Moriarty’s eyes bore through him, and Moran didn’t fucking dare to break eye contact. Not being able to see Moriarty would put him at a terrible danger. When Moriarty moved towards him, Sebastian moved away. Moran wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t a bloody idiot either. He knew when not to push his luck, and right now was one of those times. He put the table between them; the plastic bag crinkled softly when he set it down on the pristine white tablecloth. Beneath his rough hands, the fabric was soft, and the plates were steaming with hot spaghetti and tomato sauce. The smell of basil and oregano and minced beef filled his nose as he moved. But Moriarty had all of the sniper’s attention. As always. “So I invited him over for tea.”

 

That grin of Moriarty’s was always the first sign of his insanity, because sometimes, James looked almost normal. Not now, of course, but sometimes it was enough for Sebastian to just forget how twisted and unhinged the man he called his boss really was. Right now, Moriarty was so angry, he was mixing up his words. Moran knew all the signs of danger, and he could fucking taste them as they came. His body was shooting up flares, telling him to get the fuck out of there. But Moriarty was talking about tea when dinner was served, and any false moves could potentially give Moran a broken wrist and a pulverised hip.

 

“Say hi, Craig.” Came with a hollow laugh and a wooden scrape, shrill and screechy, as James kicked the man’s chair forward, and the slumped carcass went flying forward, as though in a car crash at high speed. Craig Mitchell’s forehead landed on Moran’s plate with a loud, wet squelch.

 

Moran lost his appetite right there and then.

 

He had to force himself not to gulp back a mouthful of foul tasting saliva. Or at least, not do so notoriously.

“You see, tiger, I’ve been asking Craig here, why the fuck it is that he wasn’t dead at six thirty _four like wE SAID_.” And a hardly controlled inhale. As though the anger had built so fast, it had cost Moriarty his breath. Sebastian dipped his head, licking his lips and letting his shoulders ride up a few millimetres. Enough for it to show his remorse. His embarrassment, and the way it all overshadowed the eagerness he’d felt coming here. “But he isn’t saying much, Sebastian.” Moriarty’s voice dripped with patronisation. “You see, because I was clever enough to send Markson along with you, in case something like this happened. Though, you see, I hoped it wouldn’t.”

 

Moran clenched his teeth, the muscles of his jaw working tight and showing through his cheeks. His gaze remained down, set on Moriarty’s glass of red wine, already tasted, from the way the crystal was tinted ever so slightly crimson up the side. Alcohol wouldn’t help Moran’s case.

 

“I hoped it wouldn’t, Sebastian. But once again you’ve disappointed me.”

 

Slowly, as one would when dealing with a rabid animal (no sudden movements), Moran touched the pads of his fingers down on the plastic bag, and slid it towards James’ side of the table.

 

The magpie’s eyes shot down in a flash, as though a present of any sort were enough to regain his attention. To put a layer of _something_ there between them, so Moran could breathe a little in his tightened chest.

Moriarty’s curious hands reached out to take the bag from Moran, and Sebastian knew better than to let their fingers touch.

James’ eyes were half lidded and looked uninterested as per usual, but his eyebrows dropped that stern look in favour of raising in surprise.

And then furrowing with interest.

 

Up, his eyes flickered, and Moriarty’s grin turned even darker still.

 

Moran didn’t know whether his innards were twisting with fear, or sudden, spiking lust.


End file.
